Don Pendleton - Meltdown

Sputtering and choking, the Jeep labored into the woods, back away from the fence. When Bolan was sure it was out of sight, he killed the engine. As he leaped from the Jeep he grabbed the passenger's Kalashnikov. He checked both corpses for ammo, and additional weapons. Three clips for the AK-47 and a pair of fragmentation grenades evened the odds. A little. The key was whether these guys would be missed. What he had so far seen suggested they wouldn't be. Two down, but Bolan knew he had a long way to go. Before he could make up his mind what to do next, he heard the roar of another Jeep. It was heading his way fast. It was too early for the next patrol. No one could have heard the suppressed fire of the Beretta. What the hell was going on? Moving silently toward the fence, Bolan spotted the Jeep hugging the fence and running flat out in his direction. Like its predecessor, it would have to pass through the narrow gap between the trees and fence. The Executioner resumed his former position, bracing for round two. The Jeep slowed suddenly, then veered into the trees. The driver was looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit, or working against the clock. While Bolan watched, the Jeep roared into the trees, pushing far into the snow. The driver leaped from his seat as he killed the engine. He reached into the back seat, withdrawing an Ingram MAC-10. The man bent down, out of Bolan's sight for a moment, and when he straightened up, he threaded a sound suppressor onto the Ingram's snub nose.

Crouching low, the man moved back toward the fence, heading in Bolan's direction. Backing off, Bolan watched silently. The newcomer took the position Bolan had just relinquished. He dropped to one knee, examining the snow, then turned slowly, his eyes searching the trees. He had noticed signs of Bolan's presence. Before he could finish scanning the area, the sound of another Jeep filtered through the trees. It was some distance away and running at a crawl, probably the next patrol. The man turned his attention to the approaching vehicle, looking back to check the trees one more time. He edged forward, placing a small cluster of evergreens at his back, and slipped out of Bolan's sight.

He was about thirty feet away, too close for Bolan to risk moving. It appeared as if he was going to ambush the next Jeep, but why?

Before Bolan could answer that question, the headlights of the approaching Jeep stabbed through the darkness, scattering shadows across the snow where Bolan crouched. He couldn't see the newcomer, who hadn't made a sound since taking up his position. The Jeep was close now and had slowed to a near crawl.

Bolan could hear the guards discussing something. The Jeep stopped. The passenger dismounted and walked toward the front of the vehicle.

"Look here, Stan. Tracks. Somethin' went off into them trees."

"It's probably nothing. Somebody had to take a leak, I'll bet. Come on."

"You sure?"

"Hell, there ain't nobody here but us chickens, pal." The driver laughed. "Let's go."

The passenger turned to get back in the Jeep.

The cough of the Ingram caught him by surprise. The rain of .45 caliber hellfire stitched the driver across the chest, slamming him backward into the seat.

Bolan saw the second guard dive for cover.

Too late. The Ingram sought him out, catching him in midair. His body slammed sideways as the rapid fire shattered his ribs. He spun, hitting the ground in a roll and coming to rest against the fence.

The hidden man suddenly appeared, crossing behind the Jeep to reach the fallen man at the fence.

He grunted, then dragged the body toward the Jeep to dump it in the rear seat. Crossing behind the Jeep a second time, he pushed the driver into the passenger seat.

Reaching into the rear again, he tugged a large piece of canvas from the back seat and dragged it across the snow toward the fence. He rushed back to the Jeep and swung it around, aiming its headlights toward the fence. Using the canvas, he quickly obscured any signs of a confrontation, kicking loose snow from the base of the fence onto the bloodstain that stood out in the bright lights from the Jeep.

Out in the open, the newcomer had his back to the trees. Bolan raised his Beretta and moved forward. The running engine would cover his approach.

He reached his initial firing position just as the man finished. Bolan drew a bead on the man's back. And waited.

When he turned back to the Jeep, the man's features sprang into bold relief for the first time since his arrival. The Executioner inhaled sharply.

The man was Eli Cohen.

Mack Bolan watched while Cohen got into the Jeep and swung it around. He headed into the trees just as Bolan had done with the patrol he had taken out earlier. But this time there was a difference.

Cohen had his own Jeep. As the vehicle disappeared into the trees, Bolan walked toward the area where Cohen had concealed his own Jeep earlier.

Bolan heard the engine die, and the lights went out. In a few moments, he heard Cohen floundering through the snow. Placing the Jeep between himself and the approaching man, Bolan dropped to one knee. As Cohen broke into the clear, Bolan bent to conceal himself behind the rear of the Jeep.

Eli Cohen was nearly out of breath from his exertions. He trudged heavily toward the Jeep.

With twenty-five feet remaining, he stopped and scanned the trees. In a loud whisper, he called, "Bolan? Bolan, are you here?"

"Who wants to know?" Bolan answered.

"Thank God!" Cohen sighed, turning toward the sound of Bolan's voice. "We better get a move on. We don't have much time."

Bolan stood up, still holding the Beretta.

"Where's Rachel?" he demanded.

Cohen hopped into the Jeep and cranked it up. "Get in," he said over the roar of the engine. "I'll tell you everything I know. But we have to hurry."

Bolan knew he had no choice but to trust the man. He wasn't sure he should, but unless he missed his guess he couldn't win if he didn't. Bolan climbed into the Jeep, keeping the Beretta in his lap. Cohen saw the pistol and smiled.

"Nice gun," he said.

The main control room of Thunder Mountain's Unit 1 reactor was crowded. The chaos was getting to Malcolm Parsons. He wasn't used to such a commotion unless he was at its center. He felt like a bystander, and knew that, in fact, that was all he was. Glinkov's men had just returned with the last group of hostages. The Russian was huddled with one of the raiders, stopping occasionally to issue orders. Parsons had had enough. He charged over to Glinkov with his arms waving. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?" Parsons demanded.

"Hold your water, pal," the man with Glinkov snarled.

The Russian placed a hand on his companion's arm. "Give me a moment with Malcolm, would you, Steven?"

Grudgingly the man withdrew a few steps, turning his back to watch the disposition of the hostages.

"Malcolm," Glinkov said, trying to soothe the older man's irritation. "I'm very busy. Why don't you wait in that office over there. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"What's happening here? Who are all these people?"

"In a minute, Mr. Parsons. Kindly wait in the office."

Parsons wasn't happy, but he did as he was told.

Glinkov watched him go, a thoughtful expression dulling the forced smile. When Parsons had closed the office door, Glinkov returned to his lieutenant. "Do you have them all now?"

"Yeah. We checked the time cards. Everybody's here. Thirty-two of 'em."

"Not as many as I would have thought," Glinkov said.

"Well, only one reactor's operating, and these damn things practically run themselves. So much automation, computers and all that shit. All that power, and hardly anybody watching it."

"A good thing, too. Our task would have been much more difficult otherwise. It's time for the next phase, Steven. Get all the hostages into one location. Use that backup control room. It will be easy to secure."